


Lay right down in my favorite place

by darkrosaleen



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Always a Different Sex, BDSM, Collars, Coming Untouched, Cunnilingus, Dirty Talk, Drunk Sex, F/M, Femdom, Fuckbuddies To Lovers, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Pegging, Phone Sex, Size Difference
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-21
Updated: 2018-04-21
Packaged: 2019-04-22 23:58:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,531
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14319927
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darkrosaleen/pseuds/darkrosaleen
Summary: Dylan shoots a furtive glance at his bed, where all his travel toys are safely hidden in a black drawstring backpack. "It's not that bad, I swear. Just old friends blowing off steam in unconventional ways."





	Lay right down in my favorite place

**Author's Note:**

  * For [somehowunbroken](https://archiveofourown.org/users/somehowunbroken/gifts).



> This is non-linear and based on zero real games (I didn't feel like checking whether the Coyotes traveled to Toronto while Dylan Strome was up). Title from The Stooges' "I Wanna Be Your Dog," which is the aesthetic for the whole fic. Thank you Frausorge for looking this over!

Dylan is wearing the necklace as he packs for Toronto. Connor spots it over Facetime, giving him her patented "I'm not mad, I'm just disappointed" captain face.

"You shouldn't be doing that to your body when you have to play," she says. "Or to your heart, frankly."

Dylan flips her off. "I'm not doing anything to my body, that's what the offseason is for." He shoots a furtive glance at his bed, where all his travel toys are safely hidden in a black drawstring backpack. "It's not that bad, I swear. Just old friends blowing off steam in unconventional ways."

Connor gives him a look. "She gave you jewelry. Jewelry that you wear when she's not around. Forgive me for reading into it."

The necklace feels heavy against Dylan's throat, and he resists the urge to play with it. "Given that the jewelry is a family friendly stand-in for a slave collar, I don't think you need to read anything into it." He tosses the drawstring bag in his suitcase and zips it shut, burying any lingering perverse thoughts.

To her credit, Connor only looks slightly nauseous. "Hate to break it to you, Stromer, but slave collars are a big deal. I've seen those websites."

Dylan's seen the websites too, but he doesn't say anything. He's pretty sure Mitch doesn't play by those rules. "Distract me," he says, flopping onto his back on the bed. "I'm not allowed to jerk off this week."

He grins at Connor's horrified gagging. Whatever, she deserves it for that time she accidentally sexted Eichs in the group text.

-

Nobody gets under Dylan's skin like Mitch Marner. She's brilliant on the ice, intelligent, funny, and has the kind of effervescent energy that makes everybody like her. She's pretty in that girl-next-door way that's Dylan's kryptonite, and her loud mouth and filthy sense of humor only make her hotter.

Mitch never hesitates to give him shit, which is probably the whole problem. She thinks it's hilarious to hurl petty insults at Dylan until he's red in the face, only to neatly duck out of every wrestling move he pulls on her. Even at sixteen, he's a full foot taller than her, and she rags on his height constantly. When she's drunk enough, Mitch will actually clamber onto Dylan's back like a koala.

He's not surprised when it boils over into sex. He's not surprised that Mitch starts it, leaning across a crowded restaurant booth and telling him that his big mouth would be better on her pussy. He's also not surprised when she leaves angry scratches on his shoulders, stinging every time his shirt rubs against them. The wolf whistles in the locker room are that same hot-proud-embarrassed combo he's come to know and love.

He's a little surprised the first time Mitch pins his hands while he eats her out. And he's really fucking surprised when she responds to a smartass text by saying he's not allowed to jerk off, and he comes in his pants after barely pressing on his dick.

Dylan feels weird afterwards. He's a teenager, it's not like he's a stranger to hair triggers. But nobody's ever ordered him not to come before.

A sharp, over-sensitive shiver goes through Dylan's body. He picks up his phone and dials Mitch without thinking about it, barely letting her answer before blurting out "Sorry. You said not to, but I was kind of turned on already and I just came in my pants. I wasn't trying to, promise." Embarrassment creeps up on Dylan—over shooting early, over telling Mitch, over apologizing like some naughty kid being put for time out.

"Oh god, Stromer." There's rustling on her end of the call, and her voice sounds weird and breathy. "You came in your pants, just from that? Just from me telling you what to do with your cock?"

Dylan realizes that she's touching herself. They've never had phone sex before, nothing more than occasional mid-jerk-off sexting and even more occasional nudes. He finds himself wanting to get her there, like a breakaway he wants to push through to the net.

"Yeah," he says, settling down against the bed. "It happened so fast I couldn't stop it. You're so fucking hot when you boss me around."

Mitch whimpers. "Fuck, you're sick. You'd be jerking it constantly if you didn't have me to keep you in line."

Dylan's face burns. It's just talk, but it's kind of true where Mitch is concerned. "I'd stop if you told me to."

Mitch gasps. "Jesus, Stromer. Would you do it? Keep your hands off, save it for me? Let me own your cock?"

Oh, shit. Dylan is learning all kinds of things about himself today. "Yeah, but it would be really hard. I'd be so desperate to get off, I'd beg you to let me touch myself."

The line goes silent, and Dylan knows Mitch is coming. He can picture the exact look on her face, the way she rubs her clit fast to get herself over the edge. Dylan's getting hard again thinking about it, and he wonders if she's going to let him deal with it.

Mitch breathes heavily for a few seconds, then giggles. "That's, uh. Not how I thought this conversation would go." 

"You thought about this conversation?" Dylan suspects this is a real talk, so he gives his dick a reassuring squeeze.

"I'm kind of fucked up, in case you hadn't noticed. It comes up eventually with everybody I sleep with, and some guys take it better than others." She says it matter-of-factly, which makes Dylan want to go hunt down every guy who took it badly and punch them in the face. "So I take the coward's way out, and make jokes that aren't really jokes. If you'd brushed me off, I would've pretended it never happened and then slowly stopped fucking you."

Dylan goes warm and tingly at the thought that he responded correctly. "Glad I didn't brush you off, then. I'm fucked up too, apparently."

He hears Mitch's breath catch. "Yeah? You like it when I push you around, tell you what to do?"

Dylan nearly groans in relief. "Can I please jerk off? I won't for the rest of the day, promise."

"Good boy," Mitch croons. Something hot and delicious settles in Dylan's stomach, and it never really leaves.

-

Dylan doesn't have long at the hotel before he has to go over to Air Canada Centre. He does a cursory unpacking and lies down for a pregame nap, trying to settle the nerves in his stomach. It always feels like a big deal to play Toronto, even without the Mitch factor complicating things. 

Dylan's phone wakes him up from a light doze, buzzing with a text from Mitch. _Left you a present at the front desk. Wear the orange plug tonight, and don't play too well._

Dylan snorts. _Left orange at home, it'll have to be blue. I have to play well or you'll get bored._

_Brat. Miss your dumb face._

Dylan squashes down his feelings and pulls sneakers on to go visit the front desk. She hands him a pro shop bag that he opens in the elevator to reveal an XL Marner shirsey. He hasn't worn her jersey (or Leafs swag) since juniors, and it gives him a weird little thrill.

The elevator stops before Dylan's floor. He has just enough time to stuff the shirt back in the bag before a dad and two little girls walk in, both wearing Marner jerseys. The littlest one is less shy, and she immediately recognizes him and starts up a conversation. Dylan signs a couple of parking garage tickets, then gets Dad to take a photo with the girls. 

The older one thanks him politely, and Dylan just about melts. "Your star necklace is pretty," she says.

Dylan's face heats up. He makes himself smile down at the girl. "Thanks. My friend gave it to me, so it's really special."

The younger girl's eyes go wide. "Is your friend Connor McDavid? I have a Connor McDavid shirt too."

Dylan weighs the pros and cons of fueling either set of rumors, and decides to make the kid's day. "Nope, it's from the lady on your jersey."

Dad drags the girls away before they can ask too many questions. He wishes Dylan good luck at the game, and the younger girl yells "But not _too_ good!" Dylan fucking loves kids.

He sends the photo along to Mitch. _How are your fans so much cuter than mine? Big sis complemented your taste in jewelry btw_

Mitch doesn't respond, and the silence stretches long enough that Dylan texts her again. _Should I not have told her you gave it to me?_ He tries to crush the squirmy discomfort of doing something wrong. It's totally within Mitch's rights to ask him to keep it on the DL, but he likes wearing something of hers around people. It makes the distance suck less.

Mitch replies immediately. _Sorry, your ugly mug turned me to stone. You can tell my kids anything you want._

Dylan can't help smiling. It's upsettingly cute that she calls them her kids. He hopes to someday get to the point where little girls want to wear his name on their back.

His phone buzzes again. _Take it off before the game? I don't want to feel bad about kicking your ass._

Dylan's emotional spidey senses are tingling, but he ignores it. _When have you ever felt bad about kicking my ass?_

She responds with a devil emoji, which makes Dylan feel a little better. He still takes the necklace off, though, tucking it into his coat pocket before heading out.

-

They talk about it, but probably not as much as they should. Dylan comes up with a safeword, and they put down rules for how much she can hurt him during the season, but Dylan's pretty easy. He'd let Mitch do almost anything to him, which she's happy to take advantage of. 

Their friends assume it's a rivalry thing, and they're not totally wrong. Dylan and Mitch always have the best sex when they're pissed at each other, and that translates well to this new thing, making Mitch hit harder and talk meaner and fuck Dylan up in the best ways possible.

That's probably also something they should talk about, but Dylan suspects that the correct answer is just "don't." Be nice to each other, respect each other, don't call each other things you wouldn't want your mom to hear. Don't settle conflicts with fists and nails if you can just talk it out. It's the same kind of thing they tell hotheaded hockey players, and look how that turns out.

Pain and aggression and discipline are languages Dylan is fluent in. He could have a mature conversation about his feelings, or he could let Mitch spank him raw and call his dick pathetic. It's like the deep muscle ache of a good workout, done on the squishy parts of his psyche. He's sure as fuck not going to ruin it by _talking_.

So he keeps letting Mitch push him to his knees, smother him with her cunt, pull his hair and scratch his chest and poke his bruises until he cries. And he lets her joke to their friends that she doesn't let him on the furniture, that he's only good for oral sex and getting things off the top shelf. And if he sometimes wishes she'd stick around and cuddle after, at least he gets orgasms out of it.

They're all drunk on cheap vodka in somebody's billet basement, and someone dared Dylan to unwrap a whole package of Starbursts with his tongue. Mitch is flushed and smiling dangerously, occasionally pulling him over to French kiss the candy from his mouth. Whenever he presents an unwrapped Starburst on his tongue, she ruffles his hair and calls him a clever boy in the high pitched voice she uses with tiny dogs. Connor is making hilariously horrified faces on the other end of the sectional.

Raucous applause breaks out when Dylan presents the last Starburst. Mitch sets her drink on the coffee table and rolls clumsily into his lap, straddling his thighs and threading her fingers through his hair. She's so short that Dylan could rest his chin comfortably on her head, but he lets her tug his head down instead. "You better eat me out after all that," she whispers in his ear, too drunk to control how hard she's pulling on his hair. Dylan somehow manages not to grind right up into her and come in his pants.

"Bathroom," he says, then waits for Mitch to untangle herself from his lap. Connor catches Dylan's eye across the room, her expression changed into something more serious and questioning. Dylan gives her a double thumbs up, then licks between the V of his fingers, which makes Connor mime puking. Dylan grins all the way up the stairs.

As soon as he closes the bathroom door, Mitch has him pushed back against it, pinning him in with her arms and a thigh between his legs. "You're so dirty, using your tongue like that where everybody could see." Her body is compact and muscular where it presses against Dylan's, and it feels like she's actually holding him in place, even though she's so much smaller. "You made me wet," Mitch says, and Dylan can't help rocking up into her thigh. "What are you going to do about it?"

Dylan loves getting the chance to beg. "Let me eat your pussy, please. I want to get you off."

Mitch shimmies out of her jeans and clambers up onto the sink. She's pink and slick between her legs, and Dylan wastes no time in dropping to his knees and burying his face in there, licking the salty-musky taste out of her. Mitch moans and sinks her fingers into Dylan's hair.

It takes a little longer to get Mitch off when she's drunk, but it's worth it for the shameless noises she makes. She's squirming on top of the sink, heels digging into Dylan's back, yanking on his hair when he does something she doesn't like. Or something she does like.

"Fuck," Mitch whimpers, holding his head down against her. "Your mouth is fucking filthy, Stromer. Wish I could keep you down there."

That makes heat curl in Dylan's stomach. He grabs his dick, which makes Mitch pull his hair hard enough to bring tears to his eyes. "Stop it," she hisses, and even drunk, that tone of voice makes Dylan shiver. "Get me off. Your cock doesn't matter."

Dylan's tempted to grab himself again, just to get more berating, but his knees hurt and he really wants to see Mitch come. He doubles his efforts, focusing on Mitch's clit, digging his fingers into the meat of her thighs. 

Mitch shakes all over when she comes, squeezing her thighs around Dylan's head. When it's over, she slumps against the mirror like a ragdoll, legs swinging back and forth. She can barely keep her eyes open to look down at Dylan. "Jerk off," she says, grinning when he shoves his sweats down. "I know you're hard. I bet you could come just from eating pussy, you like it so much."

That makes Dylan spurt all over his fist. He reaches for some toilet paper to wipe off, sitting back down on his ass to give his knees a break. 

The silence goes on long enough that he wonders if Mitch fell asleep in the sink. Then she sits up, giving Dylan an awkward smile and holding out her hand for a fist bump. "Good game, dude."

After her easy affection in the basement, the return to friend-casual feels like a brush off. Apparently, Dylan would rather be pet like a dog than fist bumped like a teammate, which is so many kinds of fucked up.

Because of the vodka, Dylan's impulses are closer to the surface, so he doesn't stop himself from leaning forward and knocking his head against Dylan's hand. "Thanks. Had a good coach."

Mitch's knuckles press in for a second, warm against his forehead. Then she breathes in sharply and yanks her hand back. She's frowning as she struggles to get herself down from the counter, and Dylan wonders if it's drunk concentration or if he upset her.

Dylan hauls himself up with only slightly less difficulty. Mitch tips forward, and Dylan reaches out to catch her. His fingers are almost long enough to meet around her waist.

Mitch's eyes land on his mouth. "Fuck, you're covered in me." She sounds astonished, running her finger over his lips. "You really do love it, don't you." She says it like it's unusual, like she's never fucked a guy who loved eating her out, and that makes Dylan crushingly sad.

"Of course I do. It's my favorite place, I'd spend all day down there if I could." He darts his tongue out to lick her finger, and Mitch lets out a squeaky giggle, her face lighting up with a smile. "You're delicious, Mitchy. Really."

Her face goes red. Dylan almost laughs at the fact that _this_ is what embarrasses the shameless Michelle Marner. Then he wonders if somebody told her she didn't taste good, and that makes him sad again.

Before he can say anything, Mitch slugs him gently in the shoulder. "Wash your face, Stromer. You're a mess." She tugs her jeans back on and slips out of the bathroom, leaving Dylan alone with her soaked panties and a chest full of dangerous feelings.

-

Arizona beats Toronto, but it's close. Dylan gets an assist, and he feels good after the game, tired and a little sore. He puts the necklace back on when he gets out of the shower and wears it through all the post-game stuff, letting himself play with it whenever his brain starts wandering off.

Somehow, he gets back to the hotel without running into Mitch. He inserts the blue plug, then changes into the Marner shirt and sweats, walking around the hotel room to get used to the press of it. He hasn't played with his ass since he put on the necklace last week, but he does it frequently enough that it's easy to sink into the sensation, heat starting to hum over his skin. 

Mitch texts him when she's on her way over. Dylan drags the cushion off the chair and sets it on the floor, kneeling on it in front of the TV. The angle makes his knees twinge a little, and it makes the plug jab into his prostate, but he likes the discomfort. It gives him something to focus on other than his dick and his pounding heart.

He gets halfway through a second episode of Frasier when Mitch knocks on the door. Dylan's heart flips a little when he sees her, cheeks pink from the cold and her hair still in a messy braid. She pushes him into the room, barely letting the door shut before her mouth is on his. Dylan kisses back, his hands fumbling with her coat. Fuck, he missed her.

Coat off, Mitch pulls away and rests her forehead against Dylan's. "Jesus, I can't believe you wore it on camera." Her fingers trace the chain around his neck, something soft in her eyes. "You let everybody see. Fuck, you're telling fans I gave it to you."

Dylan frowns, confused. "Yeah, that was the whole point. You wanted something I could wear in public." 

Mitch shakes her head. "I wanted something you could wear for a few hours around your roommates. I didn't think you'd just wear it around for days." She won't stop touching it, running the skin-warm metal back and forth against Dylan's collarbone. "How long, Dyls?"

Something big and warm and important settles in Dylan's chest. "Uh, eight days. Nine days. The whole Eastern Conference roadie."

Mitch breathes out shakily and rests her forehead against Dylan's chest. "Fuck, Dylan. You're so good, wearing my collar like that. Have you really been good that long?"

It feels right to sink to his knees and plant his face in Mitch's stomach. "Yeah, but it was fucking awful. I'm pretty sure my teammates want to kill me."

Mitch winds her fingers into his hair. "You could've asked to stop."

Dylan shrugs. "You told me to. I wanted to obey."

Mitch's arms come around his shoulders, hugging him close. He can feel her breathing go shaky. "Jesus Christ, Dylan. I don't deserve you."

Dylan pulls away and looks up at her. Mitch's eyes are wet, and Dylan thinks about what this is like from her end, consumed by the hunger to hurt and degrade someone. "You're good to me," he says, running his hand up and down her calf. "You make me feel so good, Mitchy. I want to give it back to you."

Mitch cups Dylan's face in her hands. "You deserve a reward. Can I fuck you?"

Dylan nods eagerly. "Yes, please, fuck." It's been too long since they did that, countries and continents separating them.

Mitch has him get on all fours, still wearing the shirt, while she putters around in the bathroom. Dylan breathes in sharply when she walks out in just a harness, a thick purple dildo jutting out. Mitch smiles and jacks her cock a little, biting her lip at the noise Dylan makes.

She climbs onto the bed behind him. Her hand traces the numbers on his back, coming to rest on his lower back as she works the plug free. He barely has time to clench before Mitch is inside him, filling him up, covering him. Dylan feels so full he can hardly breathe.

Mitch rocks gently at first, getting him used to it. "Fuck, you look good," she says, gently touching her name across his shoulder blades. "I love it when you wear my number. You should keep the shirt, wear it around so everybody knows you're mine."

Dylan groans, dropping his head to the bed. "I want to. I want everybody to know." 

Mitch's hips stutter. She tugs on the chain on the back of Dylan's neck. "Is that why you kept it on? You want everybody to know that you're owned? That somebody's got you on a leash?"

She reaches down to grab Dylan's cock, and he shudders and squeezes down on the dildo. "Want everyone to know that you own me."

Mitch freezes. She tugs on his legs, pulling him further down so that she can stretch out over his back. It's deeper like this, and Dylan can't help spreading his legs even further, rocking back onto Mitch's cock. She's so good at fucking him, nailing his prostate relentlessly until every breath comes out shaky, until he feels like he's going to burn up like a supernova. 

"I got you a collar," Mitch whispers into his neck, and Dylan's whole body clenches. "A real one, from a leather shop. It doesn't look like anything, so you can wear it all the time and never take it off."

Maybe it's the nine days of chastity, or being railed by a huge dildo, but Dylan starts coming without a hand on his cock. All he can do is shake through it, clenching helplessly around Mitch while she rubs up and down his back. She keeps rubbing as his legs collapse and he drops straight into the wet spot, panting like he just got off a long shift.

It dawns on him that he should help Mitch, and he starts to turn around, but she presses him back on his stomach. "Don't move," she says, the bed shifting as she wrestles out of the harness and gets a hand between her legs. Dylan stretches his shoulders so she has a good view of her name on his back.

The wet noises stop, and Mitch sits at the end of the bed for a long time. Dylan's eyelids have drifted shut by the time she gets up and starts rifling in her handbag.

Mitch taps him on the shoulder, and he rolls onto his side to make room for her. Mitch's hair is coming out of her braid in dark wisps, and her face is pink, either from her orgasm or from the small mailing envelope she hands to Dylan. "You don't have to wear it all the time, or even at all, but I really did get you one." 

Dylan pulls out a simple round pendant on a leather cord. It's shorter than the one he's wearing now, but not long enough that it would show over his jersey. It looks discreet and masculine, with a pretty knot design on the pendant. The reverse is engraved with a small 16. 

Dylan lets out a shaky breath. "Holy shit, Marns." He turns the collar over in his hands, feeling the weight of it. "This is way past fuckbuddies, dude."

Mitch is staring at the collar in his hands. "It's been past fuckbuddies for a while now. For me at least." She reaches out and tugs on the necklace he's still wearing. "This was important to me. I told myself it was just a kinky sex thing, but then I saw you wearing it after your Buffalo game, and that—it was important, that you wore it when you didn't have to. It meant something."

So she does play by internet slave collar rules. Dylan unhooks the latch of the collar and hands it to Mitch. "Put it on. I want to wear it."

Her eyes go wide. "Shit, really? All the time?"

Dylan hesitates. "Yeah. Maybe not with full chastity, but I want to try wearing it all the time." He reaches around for the clasp of the star necklace, fumbling as his fingers shake. "I kind of hated taking this off. I even slept in it."

Mitch bites her lip. She gestures for Dylan to sit up, sliding the leather around his neck and latching it in the back. It settles just under Dylan's collarbone, a little heavier than the last one.

"I like it," he says, turning around to show Mitch. "It feels like you're always here, owning me."

"Stromer," Mitch says, her voice breathy. She hasn't stopped touching him since she hooked the collar on. "We'll talk about everything tomorrow, but I really need to hold you right now."

Dylan grins. "Yes, Ma'am." He settles down on his side and lets Mitch spoon him. Surrounded by her scent and her collar and her number, he feels totally safe.

-

A few hours after Mitch tells him she wants to go public, Dylan goes on Instagram and posts a hotel bed selfie where he's wearing the Marner shirt. The caption says _when bae's clothes fit better than yours_ , and Mitch's collar is tucked under his shirt, just the leather visible. 

It earns him a string of bride emojis from Connor, a million angry texts from his mom, and a righteous spanking that leaves him unable to sit down for a week. But it's totally worth it, because now everyone on the internet can see who Dylan belongs to.


End file.
